


Come back better

by glim



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Common Cold, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, My First Work in This Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 15:51:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3698057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glim/pseuds/glim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"There. We'll get you home in one piece. And you'll come back tomorrow, better."</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come back better

"I don't think it's broken," Thursday murmured, fingers gently flexing the wrist. He held it still when Morse tensed, then looked up at the sound of a quiet sniff. "Does it hurt much?"

Morse shook his head; he resisted the urge to sniff again until Thursday looked away, and mumbled a pardon when Thursday looked back up at him again. 

" _Does_ it hurt much?"

"I ... no. It's not so bad, really..." He blinked, and sighed when Thursday continued to frown at him. "I landed on it this way--" Morse held his right hand out, bending the good wrist to show how the other had been hurt "--and the impact forced it too far, I suppose. Oh, that hurt," he added, softly, when Thursday tried to flex it again. 

Thursday continued to watch him, the frown on his face, curious and careful, and he leaned in closer when Morse sniffled and had to rub at his left eye. "Are you certain--"

"--I'm not--" It took Morse moment to realize what the concern in Thursday's eyes was for, and he flushed a bit, embarrassed. "It's not so bad to make my eyes water," he said, then gave his head a shake and muttered, "Pardon. It's nothing; getting over a head cold," he finally added. 

"And now a sprained wrist. We'll fix you up for tonight, but get that wrist checked in the morning." Thursday stood and smoothed his trousers, drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and dropped it onto Morse's lap. "Take that first." 

"I don't--"

"Take it."

Morse gingerly rested the hurt wrist on his leg and shook the handkerchief out with his good hand. He swiped at his nose a couple times, and when Thursday left the office, he gave his nose a heartier blow. It wasn't really effective, using only one hand like that, not when he had to brace his arm against his side to keep the hurt wrist from jarring. It did feel better, however, than the constant, damp sniffling and the vague, sore, ticklish feeling at the back of his throat that seemed to rise up whenever his nose started to drip. 

Which was much more frequent than was convenient. The cold he'd caught after the early spring cold snap they'd had was still hanging on, the sore throat and headache and runny nose, along with the coughing and sneezing that seemed to cause or result from the other symptoms. Morse had been telling himself that it was more a bother than anything else--his voice sounded scratchy, his eyes had been watering all evening, and the thin, cold wind outside that evening had made his nose sting. 

He couldn't blame the sprained wrist on his cold, though. That was a combination of his own ill-luck and the rain-slick, uneven pavement in the side streets of Oxford. They wouldn't've caught the suspect even if he'd remained steady on his feet; he'd wanted them to chase him down that alley, planned to sidestep them and leave them behind, panting and frustrated. 

Morse rubbed at his nose again, tensed in preparation for a sneeze, then rubbed back the feeling when he heard Thursday's footsteps outside the room. 

"I'll do this," Thursday said and held out an elastic bandage, "and you'll take a couple of these." He shook two tablets out from a bottle of painkillers, then handed Morse a glass of water. "Then I'm taking you home. Drink all of it," he added when Morse tried to hand back the glass.

"It's just water." 

"Exactly. Better than anything else you've put in your stomach today." 

Morse sighed and held his arm steady while Thursday rolled up his shirtsleeve to his elbow. He rested it against his leg when it started to tremble, waiting for Thursday to unwind the bandage. 

"Have something to eat when you get home. Something hot," Thursday added, not looking up at Morse. He raised Morse's arm carefully and began to wind the bandage around his hand and wrist, starting at the palm. "Do you have anything?"

Morse clenched his jaw against a cry of pain when Thursday had to move his wrist, then shrugged. His nose was starting to run again, too, and he fought the urge to snuffle until Thursday moved away from him a little. "Something tinned?"

"Good enough. And so is this," he added and tapped Morse's arm. "Keep the bandage on tonight as best you can, then see a doctor tomorrow. At least Debryn," he added when Morse grimaced. He rolled the shirt sleeve down over the bandage and left it unbuttoned, then reached for Morse's other hand. "Here, you might not be able to get this later," he said softly, unbuttoning the other cuff. 

Morse let his hand linger a little too long against feeling of fingers moving carefully against his wrist; the warmth was so suddenly welcome, and though he shrugged again when Thursday asked if he felt chilled after a shiver, he knew he must look cold and pathetic, with his streaming nose and hurt wrist and chills. 

He pulled away before Thursday could, burying a sudden sneeze into the borrowed handkerchief and curling down into the force of it. His wrist protested at the sudden movement, and Morse gave a little groan as he straightened. 

"I'm not sure I have time for all this."

"You're going to have to make time," Thursday said. "I want you to get some rest tonight. Real rest, not the sort where you take your work into bed with you. Eat a hot dinner, then get in bed and sleep. You'll feel better tomorrow morning," he added when Morse coughed and frowned. 

"I'm not feeling poorly, just ..." 

"Just?"

"A bit worn down." 

"I'm not surprised. You _will_ feel better if you have something to eat and you get some sleep. You'll be more useful, too, if you're not coughing at me all day tomorrow, or dead on your feet." 

Morse had enough decency to duck his head and nod, not wanting any more scolding than that, and swallowed back the urge to cough that was threatening to catch in his chest. He cleared his throat, then reached around the back of the chair for his jacket. After a few fumbling moments with one hand bandaged and the other still holding the handkerchief, he struggled into the jacket, and then resigned himself to having his overcoat settled on his shoulder as he stood from the chair. 

"There. We'll get you home in one piece. And you'll come back tomorrow, better." 

"Much better," Morse said, and the warmth of Thursday's hand at the center of his back, nudging him toward the office, gave the words more weight than he had expected. 


End file.
